A Guide to Not Making Your Tribute Suck
by FoalyWinsForever
Summary: The first and worst, as far as I know. Now rewritten. Again. It's even legal this time, isn't that exciting?
1. Deyna Balthazar Is Surrounded by Idiots

**Disclaimer: You are not being compared to the Gamemakers. That would be wrong. The Gamemakers are for lulz and only lulz.**

Deyna Balthazar had a problem. It was a big problem. It was a nigh-unsolvable problem.

What was it, you ask? What was Deyna Balthazar's unconquerable problem?

Deyna was surrounded by idiots.

Not just Capitolites. Deyna could deal with them. He was one, for goodness' sake. No, the Head Gamemaker was trapped in a room with mouth-breathing, prime-time-TV-quoting, certified dumbasses. Otherwise known as his fellow Gamemakers.

He sighed and laid his head on the table, gesturing an Avox over. The closest one was a boy of about fifteen, definitely eligible for the Games if not for his situation. The Gamemaker wondered offhandedly who had assigned the boy to this room. Whoever it was, they had a macabre sense of humor. Deyna resolved to find out who they were and hire them.

"Any idea what the maximum dosage of headache pills is?"

The Avox boy blinked and held up four fingers. Of course he would know. The poor boy had probably spent half his life fetching the damn things.

"Wonderful," Deyna muttered. "Get me six." The boy ducked his head obediently and shot out the door, leaving the Gamemaker alone with his cohorts. And his cohorts...

Would not.

Shut.

Up.

_"Did you see her? I mean, her hair was–"_

_"– Unbelievable, I mean honestly, look at me! And she still goes and–"_

_"Leedleedleedlee…"_

_"– Romantic! Oh, we just have to choose her! Look at those beautiful purple eyes! Oh, and the poor girl's father, killed by–"_

Whap.

The last man to speak was abruptly cut off by a world-class bitchslap, courtesy of the Head Gamemaker.

Deyna huffed, running a hand through his burgundy hair. "No. No, no, and no. A thousand times no. They are _not supposed to know that we pick the tributes,_ can you all get that through your skulls? How many people are there in Panem with purple eyes? Two?"

"Three, actually," Tibbi Duster piped up from the corner of the room. She gulped and promptly piped down when Deyna turned his red-eyed glare on her.

"Whatever. Out of hundreds of thousands of people, that's not enough. We need to– All right, you know what? I'm going to make you people a guide to picking tributes. Tributes that won't make it totally obvious the Reapings aren't random."

The Gamemakers stared at him blankly. Deyna banged his head against the wall. The Avox boy, who had just returned, held out the pills wordlessly.

Well, obviously.

"Look, just go back to whatever you were doing, okay? It'll be done pretty soon." Deyna spun on his heel and strode to his desk, gritting his teeth when the chatter started again almost instantly. Next year, he resolved, he was getting his own office. Or else.

_"– Can't believe they did that on the air! I didn't even know people were that flexible, honestly–"_

Deyna groaned and pulled a bottle of Jager from his desk drawer, pouring a shot and chasing the headache pills with it.

_"So I knew she'd tell Vespa I told her he told me she told him, but I guess he didn't–"_

_"Leedleedleedlee…"_

_"– The cute widdle cat! It wants a cheeseburger!"_

For about the eight time that day, Deyna Balthazar seriously considered inciting a rebellion.

The Gamemaker pulled the screen up from his desk, resting his chin on his hand and glaring at his computer. It was impossible to concentrate, although the Jager was helping. Or he'd finally done himself in with the pills. That was also a possibility.

Tributes. Tributes. Right. He sighed, running a pale white hand through his hair again and already regretting his decision. He ought to just pick the tributes himself; everyone would be happier than way. Except he had no interest in researching them. He was the Head goddamned Gamemaker. In truth, he would have been perfectly happy to run the entire thing himself, but one man simply couldn't see to every aspect of the Games and he knew it. Which meant that his colleagues were going to have to get a clue.

Deyna poured himself another shot and began to type:

* * *

**_A Guide to Choosing Tributes_**

_Because apparently there's some confusion._

Just remember the golden rule and you'll be fine. No, the other golden rule: one out of twenty-four. That's what the odds should be. Whether we're talking about hair color, eye color, dead parents, whatever, the likelihood shouldn't be much lower than one out of twenty-four.

Note that zero out of twenty-four is a no-no. There is no such thing as natural pink hair. Please remember this.

If you've already picked twenty tributes and half of them have dead parents, no more dead parents. If there's a tribute like that who you absolutely must have, I request that you personally travel to their District with a machine gun and change the odds so that it's nigh impossible for them _not_ to have a dead parent.*

_*Note to Tibbi: That was a hyperbole. No more mass murders, please. Once was quite enough._

**The Rules**

1. If you can't describe the kid's personality in more detail than a string of random adjectives, this is probably a bad thing.

2. If they're not from One, Two, or Four, but they're trained, there'd better be a damn good reason for it. If it seems like they expected to go into the Games, people will get suspicious.

3. Make sure they have weaknesses we can exploit, not just being afraid of spiders or something like that. I don't want to have to order a whole crop of spider mutts bred just for one tribute.

4. No names from books. Whoever invented the name Jace is in for a world of pain when I find them.

5. The same goes for Nyx.

6. You know what? No dramatic names in general. It bothers me. Nothing more than four syllables, because it bothers the announcers. No Lunas, no Midnights, absolutely no Ebony Darkness Dementia Raven Ways.

7_. Especially_ not Ebony Darkness Dementia Raven Way.

8. Cool it with the twins. It's like there's something in the water.

9. Not too many jaw-droppingly attractive tributes. You'll make our audience feel bad about themselves.

10. Not too many with friends or siblings who have been in the Games. It's suspicious.

11. If they have touched a katana or a whip in their life, I want nothing to do with them. Why do we even have katanas in Panem? Who is making them? Find them and send them to a psychologist.

12. Psychos are entertaining, but make sure you can tell me exactly what to expect. I don't want to arrange for an axe murderer and find myself with someone who's mortally afraid of ducks.

13. Are one in twenty-four people afraid of ducks? I suppose not. But that would be excellent. Cleo, check on that for me please.

14. Any non-Career with weapons skills better have a reason for it.

15. Absolutely no tributes with hypnotic eyes/beauty. If they're that powerful, I don't want them in my Games. I want them shot. That's an order.

16. Please, please go easy with the abusive parents. People think we're sadistic enough already. Don't encourage them. It's bad for PR.

17. For the love of all that is holy, no one even remotely resembling whatserface there District Twelve chick. Kat-thing.

18. Or the other one. From the place. The place with the things. Food and stuff. That's the one.

19. Ccccccccccccccccccccccccc

* * *

The Gamemakers glanced at each other as the empty bottle of Jager silently fell to the plush carpet. Deyna's head was turned away from them, his temple resting on the keyboard, wild wine-colored hair brushing the screen.

"You think he's done?" Cleo piped up, turning to her friend Tibbi.

Tibbi brushed silvery-gold hair from her eyes, tilting her head thoughtfully. "Could be," she shrugged. "Not like he's going to write anymore, anyway." The rest of the Gamemakers nodded sagely. Emboldened, she crept up to Deyna's desk and hit _send_ on the message he had been typing. The rest of the consoles in the room beeped simultaneously a split second later.

The Gamemakers returned to their desks to read what Deyna had written. Within minutes, they were debating. Loudly and enthusiastically.

An hour later, they were still going strong.

The Avox boy in the corner kept his eye on Deyna. As soon as the Head Gamemaker's eyes began to flutter, the boy fled the room, returning as fast as he could with four more headache pills.

Tibbi was the only other occupant of the room to notice the boss' return to sentience. "Sir!" she yelled.

He groaned and winced, clapping a hand to his head. "Uh?"

"What's a hyperbole?"

Deyna took several deep breaths. "A hyperbole," he said patiently, "Is when Tibbi Duster does not kill people."

She stuck out her lip. "I don't like hyperboles."

_"– A word for being afraid of ducks, I think. What's it? Somethingaphobia–"_

_"Leedleedleedlee…"_

"At the moment," Deyna muttered, "Neither do I."

**And thus ends version three of FoalyWinsForever's Guide to Not Making You Tribute Suck. I feel like that should have a jingle or something.**


	2. Deyna Balthazar Breaks the Fourth Wall

**If you haven't read the new(est)version of Chapter One yet, you might want to go do that.**

_**Disclaimer: All fics, users, and tributes mentioned in this story are completely fictional. Any resemblance to existing fics, users, or tributes, living or dead, is purely coincidental, although it might mean you're doing something terribly wrong. On second thought, if you're a dead user and you're reading this, that's kind of awesome. How are you doing that?**_

"Mr. Balthazar?" the Capitol aide said breathlessly. "I have the final tribute list."

Tibbi peered over the Head Gamemaker's shoulder as he perused the list and the short descriptions and biographies following each name. "I thought you said no purple eyes?" she asked.

"Yes, but has anyone told them that?" Deyna grumbled.

Tibbi scratched her head, mystified. "Them? Who, the Districts? They're not the ones choosing, are they?"

"No, not them! The submitters!" Deyna snapped, deciding for the moment that the importance of the sanctity of the genre outweighed that of the fourth wall.

"Ooh!" Tibbi squealed, jumping up and down and clapping. "Are we switching to a quasi-unconventional narration style? Does this mean I get to slap people through the Internet?"

"Of course not, don't be ridiculous!" the Head Gamemaker barked. "It means _I_ get to slap people through the Internet."

"Oh. Shoot."

Deyna nodded slowly, thoughtful. "You know something?"

"I don't know."

"Of course you don't."

Tibbi pouted. "Well, tell me something."

"I was just thinking… now that this ridiculous guide has been upgraded to a story… a really bad story with absolutely no respect for the fourth wall, but a story nonetheless…"

Tibbi rubbed her chin, her voice suddenly deepening and sounding remarkably like that of Jon Stewart. "Go on."

"We need an antagonist," Deyna declared.

"What do you mean, we need an antagonist?" Cleo, the blue-haired research assistant, stomped into the fray. "We're Gamemakers. We kill kids for a living. We _are_ antagonists."

"No, no, that's in canon!" Deyna said, waving her away impatiently. "This fic is many things, but it most certainly is _not_ canon!"

Cleo considered it. "I guess I can't argue with that."

"Of course you can't. We're… we're anti-heroes, okay?"

"Villain protagonists," Tibbi cut in.

Deyna rolled his eyes. "No more TV tropes for you, Tibbi, it's ruining your vocabulary. Forget what we are, all right? We need something worse."

"Worse?" the girls gasped in unison.

"Worse," Deyna repeated, red eyes glinting in an office that had suddenly grown shadowy and full of smoke. "Wait, what the hell?"

A furious growl sounded from outside the frame. "_Damn_ it, Balthazar!"

The Head Gamemaker's eyes widened. "Uh…"

"Do the words 'dramatic effect' mean anything to you? Anything at all?" ranted the sixteen-year old girl who had somehow snuck into the Gamemakers' office. She had shimmering violet eyes, like amethysts, that you could drown in. Her skin was clear porcelain, like a doll, or maybe it was lightly tanned. Her hair was a midnight raven licorice black with a hint of onyx, unless it was actually as blonde as wheat and sunshine, ignoring for the moment the fact that sunshine is white.

Facts. Bah.

The girl was tall and graceful, with curves in all the right–

_Blam. Blamblamblamblamblam._

Aaand now she was dead.

Deyna huffed, throwing the AK-47 over his shoulder and knocking out an Avox. "This story really is going downhill, isn't it?" he muttered.

"Maybe," the girl said with a shrug, stumbling back to her feet despite the bullet holes in her chest. "Look, can we try this again? Don't worry about the blood; it fits right in. My father beats me horribly," she said earnestly.

Deyna stared at her for several seconds, silent. Then he turned and marched over to his desk. He threw open a drawer, pulled out another bottle of Jagermeister, and took a large gulp.

"Right," he muttered, closing his eyes and massaging his temples. "New plan. Grab you anti-laws-of-physics devices, everyone. We're going through the zeroeth wall."

There was another beat of silence.

Tibbi cocked her head. "Wait, what?"

"Anti-laws-of-physics devices! What, were you just going to stroll into the Internet?" Balthazar ranted, a manic gleam in his eyes.

Tibbi didn't seem terribly alarmed. "That's impossible. And that's a terrible name."

"It's the future," the Head Gamemaker said, waving her point away. "The laws of physics are optional."

"It's still a terrible name."

"Shut up or you're fired."

Several bouts of name-calling and bitch-slapping later, the Gamemakers were all inside the Internet, through some miraculous feat of science and vague narration.

Moving on.

"Ooh, the Hunger Games archive!" squealed the purple-eyed individual who had somehow snuck along for the ride.

"Oh, dammit," Balthazar mumbled. "I forgot about you. But you need a name, for our readers' sake if nothing else."

"I have a name," she huffed. "You just didn't ask. It's Liana Raolin Kiyera Rosemary–"

The Gamemakers exchanged nervous glances. Deyna didn't look angry. No, he was eerily quiet, almost amused, staring at her with one raised eyebrow.

"– Abigail Reyna Catalina Milania–"

Deyna's eyebrow rose even farther.

"– Sunshine Glitterwings McFluffysparkle."

"Right," Deyna said slowly. He nodded, narrowing his eyes. "I see."

Liana Raolin Kiyera Rosemary so-on-and-so-forth McFluffysparkle nodded back. "I'm named for my grandmother, you see. She died fighting the–"

"Spot."

"I beg your pardon?"

Deyna stared at her, no hint of a smile on his lips. "Spot. We're calling you Spot. We're on a tight schedule, you know." He swept along through the archive before the furious tribute could object.

"What are we looking for, anyway?" Cleo grumbled, dusting herself off after a nasty fall over a particularly lengthy username. "This light is awful for my complexion."

"Why, Sues, of course," the Head Gamemaker said airily, throwing interested glances into every fic he passed. He reared away from one of them, his face turning even paler than usual, which really shouldn't have been possible.

"Sir?" Tibbi said hesitantly.

Deyna closed one eye, wincing. "Would someone filter out the M rated fics, please? Thank you." He continued walking. Or scrolling. Or whatever.

Cleo peeped into the offending fic a second before Tibbi's new search terms zapped it out of existence. "Gale Hawthorne, you _beast,_" she whispered. Her eyes narrowed. "Wait a minute, who's–?"

Tibbi dragged her retching friend away. "Don't worry, Cleo, we'll find you some brain bleach around here somewhere," she said comfortingly.

Meanwhile, Deyna had stopped in front of a particularly badly-spelled summary. "Now," he declared. "Gamemakersof my sub-universe, this won't affect you much, but it's still important. There are a few more rules that need to be known. Cleo, would you write this down, please?"

Cleo nodded, pulling a piece of paper and a pen out of hammerspace and recording Balthazar's speech.

* * *

**The Rules, Part Deux**

1. "Hunger Games" should be capitalized. If an author can't handle that, it's probably a bad sign.

2. Punctuation. This is not difficult. A smiley face is not a punctuation mark. Also, don't use too many exclamation points; it's kind of alarming.

3. If it's in your title and it isn't an article or a preposition, it should probably be capitalized.

4. If it's an SYOC, make that obvious. Yes, you run a higher risk of getting reported, but that doesn't really matter if you never get any tributes.

5. If there's something different about your Games, please tell your readers, particularly if it's a Quarter Quell. Suspense is great and all, but people might not submit if you insist on being coy about what the twist is. No one wants their tribute gender-switched or something like that.

6. … Unless they do. Fanfictioners are weird like that sometimes. But still.

* * *

Cleo stuck the paper and pen back in her pocket as Deyna nodded curtly and continued through the archive.

"Now," he said grandly. "The submissions themselves… again." He jumped inside a nearby fic, ushering the group through several chapters of forms and Reapings to the interviews. "Let's see what we've got, shall we?"

Twenty-four tributes sweated on the stage, blissfully unaware of the Gamemakers who had come from an alternate universe to mock them.

"First the Careers," Deyna whispered as the One boy made his way to the interviewee's chair. "Almost always at least sixteen, and almost always… well… Careers. Volunteering is an honor. There would be a full pack nearly every year, unless things have changed significantly from canon to the time of the Games."

The One girl slid onto the plush red cushion, shooting a winning smile into the audience.

"Career girls," Deyna said, nodding. "Probably either physically strong enough to keep up with the boys, or able to use their gender as an advantage. Maybe extremely smart, or just extremely charismatic. But a completely normal girl who happens to have a bit of training would be unlikely to do well."

"Completely normal girl," Spot sniffed, flipping her hair. "Huh."

Tibbi took the liberty of slapping her that time.

"And then the rest of the tributes," Balthazar continued as the Five girl took the stage. "This is where it gets interesting. Or not."

He watched impassively as the next few Districts trickled by, ignoring his fellow Gamemakers, who were getting increasingly twitchy.

"There's a bit of a pattern here," he observed for the benefit of anyone who might be listening, or possibly reading. "Quick tip: Here's an example of a personality:

_She's nice, but stubborn and sometimes rebellious. She's fiercely loyal to her family and friends and will lose it if someone messes with them. She's a little insecure deep down. She hates the Capitol. She's smart and extremely sarcastic._

If that looks familiar, please douse yourself with cold water immediately. Thank you."

Deyna then decided to magically teleport his cronies back to their own universe, since messing with the space-time continuum so much was giving him a bit of a headache. Or maybe it was the Jager.

Nah.

"Oh good," Tibbi said, sinking into her chair gratefully. "We're back. Let's never do that again, please. That was way too meta. And teleportation makes my spleen feel weird."

Deyna gave her a strange look, but elected not to comment on the state of her spleen. "Cleo, did you happen to write down any more observations?"

The blue-haired researcher nodded emphatically. "Sure did: not many brunettes, way too many tomboys, unnervingly descriptive eye colors, the word 'flowing' used to describe hair, too many eldest siblings taking care of younger ones, and half of Panem seems to be comprised of fantastic singers who are also terrified of spiders," she said in one breath.

"Okay. You heard her, people," he announced to the universe in general. "Don't do that."

"Any of it?" Tibbi asked, obviously scandalized. "But… but…"

"Some of it's fine, just don't do _all_ of it, for the love of pancakes and fluffy little bunnies," Balthazar muttered, rifling through his desk and eventually coming up with a bottle of pills, of which he ingested enough to kill a small whale.

Tibbi frowned. "But _why?_"

"Because we want originality! We _all_ do! Readers, writers, everyone! Watching people die horrible deaths isn't any fun if it's the same five or so people every time," Deyna ranted as he stalked around the room. "Give them a nasty sense of humor. Give then an obsession with chocolate. Make them a class clown. A bad boy. Make them a cultured intellectual, or dumb as a box of rocks. Maybe they play soccer for their school in District One, or with the miners from Twelve. Give them a pet cat. A one-eyed one, or one about to have kittens. Just give us something. The goal isn't for them to win; it's for us to feel it when they die. Maybe they'll get ripped to shreds or irradiated or run through, but at least they really _existed_ to us, and honestly, that's the best they could have hoped for." He took a deep breath, red eyes glinting. "We are the Gamemakers. We _will_ kill them. Entertainment: that's what it's about. So give it to us, huh?"

He thought for a moment. "Or else I'll slap you through the Internet."

**Sorry if that made no sense. The Internet is a difficult setting to deal with. ;)**


	3. Deyna Balthazar May Have Finally Lost It

**Hey look, I'm back.**

**… Oh, don't look at me like that.**

**So, disclaimer time once again: I am not Suzanne Collins. I am not an English teacher or a psychologist. I am not old enough to drive. I am in no way qualified to tell you what to do, and I'm not trying to. I'm just sharing some thoughts of mine in the most ridiculous way possible.**

Deyna Balthazar slapped a ruler against his palm in a businesslike manner. The other Gamemakers, rather than jumping back as he had hoped, scratched their heads. Metaphorically.

"All right, listen up."

The Gamemakers blinked in unison.

"Today we're going to talk about Careers."

Another blink.

"Also known as characters who kill other characters for fun and profit."

"Ohhh," the Gamemakers said, nodding in understanding.

"Now, the fundamental difference between Careers and everyone else is the fact that they _deliberately_ go into the Games. It takes a very special kind of person to volunteer to kill people and face a twenty-three out of twenty-four chance of dying themselves."

"An idiot?" Tibbi interrupted.

"Maybe. Not necessarily. Also, shut up."

Tibbi stuck her tongue out. Denya thwacked her over the head with the ruler.

"Hey, where'd you get that, anyway?" Cleo said. "It's so… old-school."

Deyna opened his mouth to reply, them closed it again when he remembered that he had spontaneously warped into existence at the beginning of this chapter and in fact had no idea where he had gotten the—

"Oh, come on, we don't get the fourth wall back again?" Cleo complained to the narrator. "That's such a violation of privacy."

The narrator politely reminded Cleo that the readers could see the Gamemakers anyway, and the only change was their awareness of it.

"Well, I still don't like it."

Shut up, Cleo.

"You shut up."

At that point an anvil tragically materialized above Cleo's head, succumbed to the Siren song of gravity, and knocked her out.

"Knocked her out?" Tibbi said skeptically. "It's an anvil. She should be dead. What is this, cartoon physics?"

The narrator politely entreated Tibbi to shut up and Deyna to get on with it before another tragedy occurred, possibly one involving some combination of spiders, medieval torture implements and Lady Gaga.

Deyna turned a bit paler than usual, which shouldn't have even been possible, and turned to the chalkboard which had also materialized out of nowhere.

"Now, Careers break down into two basic groups: the ones who have to, and the ones who want to. The latter are significantly more entertaining, so we'll come back to them."

"Awwww."

"Shut up. Now, as everyone knows, Victors earn fame and fortune and all that jazz. For Careers who get railroaded into it, fortune is generally the main motivator there. Their family needs money, and for whatever reason, this is the best way to get it."

Deyna drew a dinosaur on the chalkboard, because he felt a bit stupid standing in front of a totally empty one.

"That's quite an extreme set of circumstances, and difficult to justify. Remember, even if you make the jump of assuming a Career will win every time, which isn't necessarily true, their chances are still one in six. If they think they've got a chance at all, we're talking about a relatively intelligent, physically capable kid here. Now, why in blazes would this be their best option to get money? If anyone can get a job with at least a slightly better mortality rate, it should be them. Not to mention the time commitment of Career training. How many hours of wages did they give up for it? If the character is good enough, you'll be afforded some willing suspension of disbelief in this regard, but you'll still have to bend over backwards for it.

"Which brings us to phylum _sane_, class _crazy parents_ of kingdom _Careeria_. In this case, the parents are somehow twisted enough to force, or at least strongly encourage, their kids to volunteer. Now, this is actually a bit easier to pull off than you might think. The Career-child-of-Career-parents concept is most certainly a cliché, but clichés are often clichés for a reason. If the parents won the Games, regardless of whether they went in willingly, they'll have a few screws loose when they come out. There also seems to be a bit of Capitol brainwashing in fanon Career Districts. As long as the cause and effect checks out, this really isn't a bad option."

Deyna paused for a swig of Jager and sketched a few stick people in the dinosaur's mouth.

"Now, in either of these cases, you might find it worth your while to really think about this while you're writing their personality. Careers in the first group would likely feel a bit put-upon deep down, even if it was their idea. And if it was their idea, you'll also want to consider the possibility that maybe they _did_ have other options, but chose not to take them, even if they don't consciously realize it. Lots of teenagers think they're invincible, but it varies from person to person. Odds are even the ones who are trying to be tragic heroes actually think they'll win.

"And in the second group, you really find the interesting stuff. Their parents, the people who are supposed to be cherishing and protecting them, are actively encouraging or even forcing them to go get killed for other people's amusement. Depending on how early in life this started, these Careers are going to be fundamentally twisted. Their relationship with their parents might be physically abusive, but more likely emotionally so. The parents clearly don't care about them at all, and in fact are likely to try to 'toughen them up' a bit. And it's likely to have worked. These Careers probably have trouble forming relationships and would have no problem betraying other people. If they _did_ grow to trust someone, and that person betrayed them, the results are likely to be spectacular."

Deyna was cut off by a loud snore.

"Who was that?"

"I think it was Cleo, sir."

"Isn't Cleo unconscious? What the hell kind of narrative continuity is this?"

"She is unconscious, sir."

"You don't snore when you're knocked out. I don't care if sleeping is technically unconscious. Don't argue syntax with me. You know what I meant."

"She woke up, sir," Tibbi said apologetically. "And then she fell asleep."

Deyna scowled thunderously and thwacked Cleo's head with the ruler. Fortunately for her, her massive blue wig absorbed most of the force, although not enough to prevent her from waking with a start and roundhouse kicking Deyna in the face.

"Oh, damn," Cleo said, waking up fully and noticing the Head Gamemaker out cold on the floor.

The rest of the Gamemakers stared at Cleo with something approaching awe. She shrugged modestly.

Deyna, having woken up due to narrative convenience, stood up and brushed himself off.

"Ahem. Now for the psychos."

Tibbi bounced up and down in her seat, clapping. "Oh _boy._"

"Indeed. Now, psychos are bad, but often more fun. This is one case where you can generally get away with garroting Reality, stabbing it in the back, and tossing it in a ditch, then dumping a barrel of gasoline on it and lighting it on fire."

Tibbi blinked. "That seems excessive."

"Hmm, perhaps the stabbing _was_ unnecessary," Deyna conceded.

"No, I mean, a whole barrel? We're in a recession." She thought for a moment. "Um… Again, I mean. Totally not the 2008 recession. What? Who said that? This is totally 2240. Or whatever. Do we even know?"

"Aaanyway," Deyna cut her off, treating himself to another gulp of liquor. "The occasional psychopath who turns up is often the highlight of any story. They're not just _an_ antagonist, they're _the_ antagonist. And depending on whether they bring the awesome, we might just start rooting for them."

"Deyna?"

"Yes?"

"'Awesome' is an adjective."

"Would you shut up? The point is, ninety-nine percent of the time, the crazy ones aren't there to be wrenching portraits of mental issues. They're there to kill people in such creative ways that we laugh, gasp in horror, and then start laughing again."

"That sounds immoral."

Deyna glared at Tibbi. "Look, Tibbi, you know half the point of the Hunger Games trilogy was to make us all take a long, hard look at what entertains us, right? The Capitol is amused by the suffering of children, and so are we. It's literary gladiatorial combat."

"But they're fictional."

"Not in our universe. Look, forget it, because the people who just _read_ it aren't the ones I'm talking about. No, I'm talking about the ones who read it, laugh maniacally, and are generally so delighted that they go online, pull together a bunch of characters that other people painstakingly created as lambs for the slaughter, and kill them off one by one, laughing all the while as Suzanne Collins facepalms and fears for the future of humanity."

"…"

"My _point_, Tibbi dearest, is that if you want to concern yourself with morality, you're in the wrong place. You're in the wrong_est_ place." Deyna cackled and rubbed his hands together. "Oh, I just love this fandom."

"Er… you were talking about psychos, sir?"

"I was, wasn't I? Eheheheh. Right. Well. Psychos. They come in all sorts of delightful flavors. In fact, I think this calls for another list. Cleo?"

"Pencil ready, sir."

* * *

**Bringing the Crazy: The Basic Types**

**The Cloud Cuckoolander—**They volunteered, but they're not quite sure why. Maybe their cat told them to. Maybe the door to the training center was irresistibly shiny. One way or the other, they're here now, and they probably know how to fight.

_Evolves into: _**The Mad Scientist—**They're still just curious, but their areas of interest have turned a little more morbid. After watching people die in the arena, they're very curious about what makes people tick. So they'll find out, one way or the other. What happens after we die? Why not kill someone and ask them? They probably won't realize the inherent logical flaw with that plan until someone's bleeding out at their feet.

**The Destroyer—**Usually male. He's here to wreak havoc, kick ass and take names. He may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but that doesn't matter, because he has a giant-ass sword and he will mess you up with it. He's bloodthirsty and definitely unbalanced. If he _is_ smart, you're in for trouble. Basically, this is Cato before Clove's death.

_Evolves into:_** The Patron Saint of Collateral Damage—**What happens when someone pushes the Destroyer over the edge. Either the Gamemakers kill him, or he tears the arena down, starting with the other tributes in it. This is more along the lines of Cato after Clove's death.

**The Femme Fatale—**Glimmer, basically. She's smart, ruthless, and above all, drop-dead beautiful. She knows how to use her looks to her advantage and can and will seduce every male within a hundred leagues, and possibly some of the girls. She's also self-centered. Very, very self-centered. Do _not _get in her way. She probably has a nasty temper, and is likely to wield either knives or a slim blade.

_Evolves into: _**The Vixen—**The Femme Fatale with a whip, or at least the attitude to match. She gets a few kills under her belt and decides she needs a bigger thrill. Along with the Joker, she's one to play with her food before she eats it.

**The Hopkins—**Either gender, although usually male for whatever reason. They're normal. _Too_ normal. They're either friendly or shy. They're probably not that big. They volunteered, but maybe it was just to save whoever was reaped? But what's that gleam in their eye? And why do they have such a dark sense of humor?

_Evolves into:_** The Joker—**If the Cloud Cuckoolander thinks 2 + 2 = squirrel, this group thinks it equals five. They're functional, but they're not quite… right. That is, they murder people. Nastily. They may put up a front that's crazier than they actually are, but either way, they're possibly the most dangerous of the lot; twisted enough to be downright feral, but sane enough to be cunning. The Joker is the most likely to set elaborate traps and plan ahead. If you're _really_ unlucky, they'll be a psychologist on top of it. Head games will ensue. They will be super effective.

* * *

Cleo looked over the list again, frowning. "And we let these people into the _Capitol?_"

"Of course we do!" Deyna grinned. "They're just buckets of fun."

"… Buckets, sir?"

"_Buckets._"

**That's all. For now. Suggestions are welcome.**


	4. Deyna Balthazar Is Bringing Sexy Back

At about that point—or possibly several millennia later, but the point is it's another chapter—it occurred to the narrator that this fic had largely abandoned its original premise of non-suckitude and had instead been focusing on the far narrower topic of non-Sueification. Which, while important, was only a small fraction of the non-suckitude required in order to… well… not suck.

"Hey, Foaly?"

What?

"You forgot the fourth wall again."

Fine. If it bothers you so much, here.

* * *

Deyna strutted into the Gamemakers' headquarters.

"Deyna?"

"Yes, Tibbi?"

"Why are you strutting?"

Deyna scowled. "Why isn't everyone?"

"Because it looks stu—"

"Shut up. I've got a lot to cover today. The author couldn't think of something important enough to cover a whole chapter, so she's just going to… dammit, Foaly, I said put the fourth wall back!"

Sorry, sorry.

* * *

"Right," Deyna grumbled. "Section one: the tribute sheet. Which is to say, the vast majority of the interaction you'll have with the author. This will probably be covered in greater detail later, but for now, I'll just say this: write more than a few words. I don't know exactly how many tributes have been submitted since the fandom launched, but it's a lot. A whoooole lot. Meaning your tribute needs to stand out, and the quickest way to do that is to actually give them… wait for it… a personality."

Tibbi and Cleo's jaws dropped in unison. "_No._"

"Oh yes!" Deyna declared, waving a hand around.

"But _how_?"

"Why, with soulless mathematics, of course! Almost every aspect of a tribute's personality can be plotted on six or so axes."

Tibbi gulped. "That sounds like a lot of math."

"Shut up. Cleo, write this down, if you would?"

* * *

**_How to Create a Human Being in Six Easy Steps—No Muss, No Fuss, No Emotional Hangups and Hospital Bills_**

Good to Evil: Possibly the simplest of them all. Where is your tribute on the moral spectrum? If you can, though, get a little more in-depth. How far would they go? Why? Is their willingness to hurt people a product of sadism or reading too much Machiavelli? (Who am I kidding; there's no such thing as too much Machiavelli.)

Smart to Stupid: Also fairly straightforward. Describe the nature of their intelligence. Is it interpersonal? Linguistic? Mathematical? Think about how it would affect them, too. If their family is intelligent, do they feel pressured to keep up? If not, are they alienated? Do they pursue knowledge? How confident are they in their intelligence? Do they take pride in it? What do they think of people who are smarter than them? Dumber? I have no idea why, but I've seen exactly one female tribute with below-average intelligence. (On second thought, I know exactly why.) Gender is no barrier to dumbassery, people.

Sane to Nuts: Are they logical as Mr. Spock, or prone to be a bit twitchy? Do they see things? Hear things? Have a phobia? Superstitions? How obvious is it to other people? Are they aware of it? Are they ashamed, or do they think everyone _else_ is crazy?

Serious to Goofy: Are they willing to joke around, or are they too mature for that sort of thing? How do they feel about being told to sit down and shut up? When someone doesn't get their jokes? What kind of jokes do they make? Stupid? Punny? Dark? Dirty? How prone are they to involuntary gothiness?

Idealistic to Cynical: Is their world sunshine and rainbows, or do they always expect the worst? What kind of view do they take on human nature? Is morality sacred and absolute, or contrived and pointless?

Shy to Outgoing: Will they start a conversation, or scream and run away if someone tries to talk to them? Why? What does it take to earn their trust? What kind of person would they get along with? Why?

And remember, those are just the basics. A personality is just a collection of individual traits—throw in any that seem interesting. Because that's what SYOTs are about, remember?

Step one: Throw a bunch of ingredients into a pot and let the character who comes striding out of the inferno fight to the death with other Frankenstein-like abominations.

Step two: ?

Step three: Profit.

* * *

Tibbi stuck out her lip. "I thought you said it was about entertainment."

"You're ruining the joke, Tibbi."

"Well, it was a stupid joke."

Deyna pulled a miniature extinguisher from his robe to put out the lampshade that had caught fire for no apparent reason. He threw a surreptitious glance over his shoulder at the fourth wall, scowling when he noticed it was beginning to crack again.

"The _point_ is, you want to inspire the author," he grumbled. "You don't need to kill them with random little details, but include enough to make your character unique. Create something that won't blend in with the near-identical characters everyone slogs through in every SYOC. If you go with a classic—nerdy girl, brute Career boy, you know the deal—put a new spin on it. The nerdy girl is a pyro, the brute is a sucker for dogs, whatever. Just surprise us. Make them memorable."

The fourth wall shattered as Deyna realized he had just addressed the audience directly.

"Aw, goddammit."

That was entirely your fault, Balthazar. Don't look at me like that.


End file.
